


The Lunar Effect

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Moon Knight (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Marc Spector is Cryptic and Intense, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Submission, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:50:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19457677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Marc is always intense, but nights like these are especially passionate.





	The Lunar Effect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kokopellifacetattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kokopellifacetattoo/gifts).



> Juice, this was supposed to be for your birthday and I am SO sorry it's so late OTL.

People sometimes talked about the full moon bringing out the crazies, or making people act wilder than otherwise they might. 

It was Frank’s experience that people were consistently willing to be crazy, violent, unreasonable, and/or just vaguely shitty to everyone around them regardless of the time of the month, and criminals certainly weren’t checking their mooncharts when plotting their bullshit. People were not oceans, the moon had no real effect on their behaviour; they were going to get up to bullshit or they weren’t.

That’s not why Frank’s started paying attention to the little moon notation on his calendar. It’s certainly not why he’s started preemptively trying to schedule his days off around the full moon. 

Most people don’t even know what phase the moon is without looking into the night sky, and they certainly aren’t psychologically affected by it. 

Marc Spector, of course, is absolutely not most people.

When he joins Marc in the bedroom, showered after a night of beating dirtbags into the ground and trying not to make his eagerness overly obvious, he finds Marc standing at the big French doors that led to the balcony. His back is turned to Frank, face turned up to gaze at the swollen moon; his hands are loose and slack at his sides. He radiates, as he always does on nights like this, a sort of overwhelming intensity, and Frank finds himself standing at a distance, over by the foot of the bed, just watching.

Because Marc can be frightening, certainly, and Marc can be frustrating and cryptic and a massive pain in the ass, but Marc is also very often beautiful, and it’s not really something Frank gets to admire much, least of all caught up in this silvery, dreamy sort of light.

“I’ve made many blood sacrifices to Khonshu,” Marc says after a while, and Frank finds himself standing at attention, drawn out of his own reverie to focus entirely on Marc’s voice. “The moon hungers, and I must keep that hunger sated. Come here, Frank.”

Another night, Frank might have told Marc to come to him. Might have made something of it, might have put up a token argument to Marc getting so bossy. 

Other nights, the moon isn’t full. And Frank wants this as much as Marc does. 

He goes to him. 

Marc is a man of great strength, and that’s where Frank thinks that beauty in him comes from. A well of purpose, of self-assurance. Marc is stronger, tougher, than almost anyone Frank knows in any real capacity. He’s so entirely given to whatever the moment demands. Moments when the moon holds less defined sway over him, as it wanes back to new, Marc can be mild, calm, easy. He jokes, he’s funny, he’s relaxed even when he’s being a cryptic asshole.

Nights like this though, the moon entering its fullest phase, Marc is… intense. Dramatic. 

“It occurs to me that maybe Khonshu is tired of blood. Kneel for me, Frank.” 

In most situations, Frank prefers to know exactly what is coming, with as much detail as possible. He’s a planner, he likes knowing what to prepare for, what to expect, preferably with enough time to work out at least three emergency contingencies and a solid escape route. He doesn’t get that with Marc much of the time, because while Marc may be a brilliant strategist and an excellent combatant, when it comes to sex he prefers a more spontaneous approach. 

Nights like these, he’s focused and quick, and Frank feels off balance. Might have been the kick to the head he took earlier, but he thinks mostly it’s just Marc, the way he seems to take up the whole room, demanding attention, firm and commanding. 

There’s something to Frank about a person possessed of that kind of absolute command. Something that inspires a little obedience in him, something that makes him want to relax and comply, let the other person lead.

He doesn’t meet many people who inspire that in him.

He kneels without comment. Marc’s hands on his face are cool and firm, keeping his head canted up to meet Marc’s eyes. “Let us offer him something new.”

For a second Frank isn’t certain what’s expected of him, but Marc makes no move to let go of his face or open his own trousers, and Frank has no delusions where this is supposed to be going. The whole ‘sacrifice to Khonshu’ deal might be new (Frank isn’t sure how he feels about it, but his dick seems to be pretty interested, so he’s not complaining), but the position certainly isn’t. He moves his hands blindly, keeping his eyes locked with Marc’s as he pops the button on Marc’s fly, tugs down the zipper.

“You’re so eager to be given to him, aren’t you? You act like it’s nothing, but you’re Khonshu’s creature. At least for tonight.”

Sighing through his nose, Frank manages to get Marc’s trousers tugged down low on his hips, stroking his cock when it springs free of his underwear. “You could be less creepy about this.”

“Good sacrifices shut up and suck my dick.”

 _Can’t really argue with that logic_ , Frank thinks, maintaining eye contact as those hands slip back into his hair, allowing him to lean in and wrap his lips around the head of Marc’s cock. The fingers in his hair go tight, not quite tight enough to hurt, drawing him further down. Frank lets it happen, keeping himself pliable because Marc makes the most gratifying noises when he gets what he wants, and also because Frank already has a bruised cheekbone and really doesn’t need any more roughness tonight.

And there is… _something_ about letting Marc fuck his mouth like this, in front of the big glass doors, curtains drawn back to let the silvery light flood the room. Maybe it’s the way Marc’s holding on and thrusting right to the edge of too far, or maybe it’s the way he’s willingly given up any semblance of control over the moment -- over his own need to breathe, even -- but for a few moments, Frank feels a little like he’s drowning. 

It’s not a bad feeling.

When Marc pulls him off, it’s almost a disappointment. The return to being able to breathe freely is nice, but Frank sort of enjoys the restriction. Other nights he might dig his thumbs into Marc’s hips, might drag him back in and suck him down, finish what he started while Marc gasped and groaned his approval. 

This is a full moon night, though, and Frank has come to learn that it's best to let Marc have the lead -- the full lead, trust and all that goes with handing that kind of control over really non-negotiable -- on these nights. Marc is implacable but far from unreasonable, and his appetite seems to run deeper but he never does anything that Frank would really consider threatening. 

Other nights the power between them, the control, is more an even spread. Frank likes to be pushed, but Marc is more understanding of his need to clutch on to certain aspects of control than some people Frank's been with in the past. Nights with the full moon, though, it's Marc who has that need to grab and seize on to every facet of control he can. Frank has found a sort of pleasure in that, in being able to trust someone enough to put them fully in control.

And Marc is good about it. Marc teases and Marc says crazy ass cryptic things, but he doesn't take advantage of trust. He's never once given Frank a reason to regret giving him this level of power on any night.

"Stand up," Marc says, so Frank does. He's a little stiff, even after a hot shower; his right knee has gone to shit in the last few years and is stubborn as all hell by the end of any given night's work. 

Marc kisses him like it's some kind of rite. Frank doesn't know how else to think of it; it's as serious and intense a thing as any part of Mass, this neat, thorough, practiced thing. His hands are firm on both Frank's arms, gripping around the biceps, even pressure. There's passion, fervency even, but there's a decided rhythm as well, a metered sort of give and take that Frank leans into willingly.

When Marc pulls back from the kiss, he leans up and Frank instinctively tilts his head down, accepting a kiss on his forehead, oddly chaste given the enthusiastic blowjob he'd been pulled away from. Marc turns him toward the french doors, standing just behind him and gesturing out beyond the balcony. "Look out at the moon," Marc says, and Frank does, taking in the heavy curve of it, the orange cast over the silvery light. "Soak in the light."

It's pretty enough, prettier set over a manicured lawn and the land around it. Must be nice, staying close enough to the city to do his business (all the businesses Marc manages, Marc and the people living in Marc's head, however the fuck _that_ works). One of these days, some warm summer night, Frank's going to give in and ask Marc to fuck him out there, out in that pretty courtyard on this too-expensive property.

"I want to fuck you here," Marc says, speaking from Frank's other side, sudden enough that Frank almost jumps out of his skin. Marc's always been good at moving damn near silently, but he's a damn cat on these nights; he seems stronger, more driven, more powerful. "Fuck you right here, framed in this perfect light. Does that suit you?"

Frank almost laughs. It's something about the way Marc asks -- nice of him to check in, but given that Frank's so hard it's really a goddamn miracle he can still manage coherent thought, it's really not the best choice of question. Does that suit you, like Frank's about to say no. 

He's wrapped around Marc's little finger at the best and at the worst he's his obedient pet. Sometimes Frank thinks those situations should be flipped; best is worst and vice versa. 

"Yeah, that sounds fine," Frank says, not turning as Marc steps back in behind him. 

Solid, powerful hands, rough from work the way Frank would never have expected someone with the kind of money Marc's got could be, smooth down his back, over the curve of his hips, to rest on his ass, holding him open, letting Marc see him. Frank fights the urge to fidget, knowing there's nothing to do about the way he's darkening in a blush, embarrassed to be seen, to be held and looked at so intimately and have Marc make that hungry, approving noise behind him.

When he's pushed forward, gently but with no option to resist, Frank lets himself lean against the big glass doors. He knows there's no one out there, knows the moon is just a fucking rock in space and cannot see, much less judge, what they're doing, but he can't shake the squirrely, squirming sense that they're being watched by an approving audience as Marc presses the first slick finger into him.

This part is always strange and overwhelming. It's so incredibly intimate, and Frank loves and hates that, loves how it makes him feel and hates that anything should strike so deeply and so powerfully in him anymore. If they could fuck dry without him suffering later, Frank would probably ask for it. Anything to escape that feeling, that crumbling sense of being _known_ and still _wanted._

But Marc's fingers feel good. The ache, the burn as Marc starts opening him up, is all twined up with a deep, unrelenting pleasure. Frank thinks maybe if skipping this part were a realistic option, he’d find himself missing out, because it’s different, isn’t it? It’s not just the intimacy, it’s sensation and intensity too. Marc curling his fingers inside him and holding him open is completely different than what it will feel like getting fucked.

Braced against the glass, Frank does his best to focus on the totality of the situation, not just the sheer, unrelenting good. The glass under his forearms and his palms is thick and stable, but cool enough his arm hair is trying to stick up and he's getting goosebumps over it. Marc behind him means he's got nothing to look at but the balcony and the yard, sprawling green painted over silver in the moonlight. The moon is heavy and low in the sky, kissing the treeline now, so the shadows are deep and long and the world feels empty except for them.

How the fuck _that_ is a turn-on, Frank doesn't know. Marc's taking his time, thorough in this as he is in all things, and Frank wants him to hurry and can't say a damn word. He knew it would be like this, or similar -- there is, after all, a reason he's started paying attention to the phases of the fucking moon, and it ain't anything to do with crime statistics.

Something though, god -- something about the idea of being completely alone with Marc, no one else to ever interrupt them, to be pinned like this forever, this drawn out, exquisite pleasure that's never quite enough -- Frank hisses through his teeth and hangs his head, letting his spine curve to push back against Marc's hand. 

Frank knows Marc loves the control he gives; Marc says he likes the way Frank trusts him. Honestly, Frank doesn't know; it's entirely possible that Marc just likes the power of it. God knows that's the general reaction in the men Frank's hooked up with in the past; getting this hard-body, tough-looking guy and having him bow his head and 'yessir' for them gets a lot of guys' motors revved just right. Power trip, and none of them knew exactly who they were dealing with. 

It tangles in him, shades of want. He _wants_ Marc to be different. He wants him to see Frank differently than other people do, and not just because he's fucking the Punisher. 

"Fuck, God, _please_ ," Frank finally breaks, three fingers feeling him out, the calluses on Marc's hand driving Frank to distraction. "I thought you were gonna fuck me."

He means it to come out as a jibe but it comes out sounding strange, edging toward a whine. His face is dark red and he's glad they're not facing each other, suddenly; whatever face he's making at this point it's bound to be stupid. Marc has a way of making him feel stupid, overwhelmed, out of his depth. 

A low laugh behind him. It should make him mad, should make him furious the easy way Marc can laugh at him, but there's nothing _mean_ to the way Marc laughs. He laughs like he _knows_ he's driving Frank up the wall and has been waiting to be called on it, betting against himself on how long Frank would hold out and always pleasantly surprised. Another night, Marc might have turned him around and kissed him, might have kept fingering him, gotten Frank so loose and so wet he'd be half begging Marc to just cut the shit and fist him.

Marc likes playing him, likes making him want these things, showing him it's safe to want. There's something about the way he does it that strips away the places shame usually would be, replaces it with a yearning, a boldness. Marc leads him by the hand and names the possibilities, leaving it to Frank to seize them.

Tonight though, Marc is in that mood, that particular Full Moon Mood, where the games aren't really in it. Frank's fine with that; he wants to get fucked and on nights like this, Marc is more inclined to fuck him just as hard as he needs.

"Your hands stay on the window," Marc rumbles behind him, pressing his cock in but not taking yet, just teasing. "Just where they are. Palms to the night."

Frank keeps his head low, but he nods. He'd agree to just about anything short of stopping at this point. There's a steady drool of wet from his cock and Marc is hot and hard behind him, and the only threat that matters in the whole world is Marc deciding to stop now.

The first thrust is slow and measured, Marc sliding home almost reverently until his hips dig against the meat of Frank's ass. It feels like it takes forever, too slow and too careful, and Frank presses his fingers frantically against the glass, smearing fingerprints over it, and fuck, god, he can't help feeling an absurd guilt over leaving greasy prints on that clean glass, the thought immediately followed by the knowledge that sooner rather than later he's going to blow his load all over that same glass. 

Anyone outside would have a real good look at Frank, bathed in moonlight and gasping open mouthed as he's fucked against the glass, not even allowed to touch his own dick. Would Marc be as visible, as dark as the room has gotten? Marc doesn't have so much as an alarm clock in here to break up the shadows; it's just the great open window, curtains thrown open and door shut against the open air. 

Every thrust feels like so much, a long, beautiful drag and slide, striking just right inside him, but the build is too slow. Frank wants more, harder, faster. He wants Marc to use him, he wants Marc to take whatever he wants from him. He doesn't know how to say these things any more than he knows how to keep himself from panting that soft, desperate noise each time Marc sinks in to the root. It's really something of a mercy when Marc's fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently to make him raise his head.

It's no surprise that he's angling him to stare at the moon, sitting on the trees now. A heavy medallion, scarred and silver. It's not an eye. It's not; Frank refuses to think of that, refuses to acknowledge the squirming want he feels when he thinks about someone watching them, enjoying this moment almost as much as they themselves are.

Marc feels heavy and solid against Frank's back. "Who do you belong to," he asks, nuzzling the back of Frank's neck as he thrusts, hard and steady. 

Frank answers without thinking, the answer obvious and wrong. "You," he says, gasping the word out, barely his own voice. "You, I'm yours."

That gets him a kiss, pressed warm and sweet to his skin. "And what's mine is his. Are you ready to be his, Frank?"

In all honesty, Frank's not sure he's ready for any of this. The way it makes him feel, like something in him is on fire, like he's split open and instead of his guts falling steaming from him it's this knot of want and need mixed into denial and the certainty that he shouldn't be doing this. It's a rising intensity, a screaming void opening up in the middle of him, consuming everything but the greedy desire for more, for this to never end.

He's not meant to belong to anyone, no one but himself. That's the whole damn point; he's calling his own shots, he's making his own choices. 

Over and over again, he makes the choice to come back to Marc, to this place or any of the others he rents or owns in the city, and he doesn't ever struggle, not really. He _likes_ being Marc's, and there's a certain part of him that loves the idea of belonging to something... someone else, someone beyond understanding, someone powerful and out of his reach. 

He hates it, the way that makes him squirm inside, the way Marc's panting breath at his neck makes his dick ache for something, anything, touch only Marc can give. 

If he agrees, it doesn't have to mean anything. Something coerced from him on the edge of orgasm, dragged out just to make him twist on the line of need and Marc's crazy-ass hangups. And yet if he says it, he'll still have _said_ it, and no amount of denial can put the words back in his mouth and unsay them. 

Outside, the moon hangs huge and ripe, this beautiful coin in the sky, and Frank gasps as Marc shoves in particularly hard, rattling the doors in their frames. Much more of that and Frank's going to cum whether either of them get a hand on him or not. 

"Tell me you're ready, Frank," Marc says, soft in his ear. "Tell me you want it."

Frank wants a lot of things. Affordable ammo bought in bulk. Tac pants that fit right and were comfortable to wear on full sixteen hour work days. Marc to hold him here like this and never ease up, never stop, fuck him until the sea swallows the earth. He wants to cum, now, soon, anytime Marc lets him.

"I do," he manages, the words barely recognizable as his own, so desperate he sounds. "I do, I am, Marc, make me, make me..."

Another man might laugh, getting him to this point, this desperate, obscenely needy, panting thing, dick-drunk and too horny to get a full sentence out. Hell, _Marc_ might have laughed, any other night, gently teasing, never mean but willing to find humor in anything. 

Marc doesn't laugh. 

He leans around Frank, grinding against him, and he twists open the doors Frank's shoved against, letting their weight push the glass open. The doors swing out over the balcony and Frank is hit by the cool night air, the smell of the grass and new leaves. He has enough time to think _this is going to hurt_ , before he's pitching forward to fall on his knees, saving himself from a faceful of paver-bricks, throwing his hands in front of him.

It doesn't hurt as much as he expects. Rattles him, sure, gets him to gasp again, braced for the pain. His knees hit first, and it's like dropping to kneel on a mattress, solid, a sort of muted ache nowhere near as biting as it should be, and then his palms meet the brick, cool but not rough enough to scratch him open the way he'd expect. 

It's like falling in slow motion and being set sharp but careful in position, like something out of a dream; he can't explain it, will later be sure it's one of those 'in the moment' things where horniness and adrenaline swallowed the pain and made it _seem_ like some kind of magic. 

Marc follows him down, draped over him. If he misses a stroke, Frank doesn't notice, and then there's -- finally, at last -- a hand curled around his cock, drawing this awful, low cry from Frank and he rocks helplessly into Marc's grip. Hands and knees on the ground, half in and half out of the room, utterly helpless under Marc, Frank doesn't even bother trying to stave off his orgasm. He cums with Marc fucking him through it, hot semen wetting the cool balcony, hidden from the moonlight by Frank's own shadow. 

Not too long after that, Marc cums as well, breathing a beautiful sound of satisfaction in Frank's ear.

The option of just collapsing right there and falling asleep in a puddle of his own cum, Marc's spend dripping out of him, is for a moment incredibly tantalizing. He feels perfectly, wonderfully used; wanted and taken and used up, and now he just wants to sleep.

Beyond the balcony railing, the moon is halfway below the treeline now, sinking lower. The stars are numerous and bright; you don't get this kind of sky in the city, and you don't get this kind of fuck but once every twenty-nine or so days. 

"Will you spend the night," Marc asks, pulling carefully away with a last kiss to the swell of Frank's shoulder, and Frank huffs a low, amused noise. 

Really, he should say no. He has things in the city to get back to, the slog of real life to return to. He should say no; he should stop checking his calendar for the phase of the moon; he should do a number of things to keep this thing from happening, over and over.

He lets Marc help him roll onto his back and smiles when Marc curls over him, kissing him with that strange, thorough sweetness. "I dunno," he says, "what does th' moon want me to do?"

That gets a laugh, sweet and pleased, Marc's hand fond on the curve of Frank's cheek. "Stay," Marc says, an offer, an order, crazy and irrefutable. "Always, just stay."

**Author's Note:**

> Reminder that dumbass comments will be deleted. I ain't havin' that shit a second time. You know who you are.


End file.
